Recapitulation
by firstdown
Summary: an episode tag for 4.10 Fugue in Red. I just couldn't leave that ending alone... My take on the thoughts running through Jane and Lisbon in that moment. One-shot.


_Author notes_: My second work of Mentalist fan fiction - an episode tag for 4.10 _Fugue in Red_. I told myself I wasn't going to write a tag for this episode but I just couldn't leave that ending alone. All seasons are fair game, so spoilers (at least vague ones) abound.

A little bit of etymology that I found interesting, if I may bore you for a moment: the word _fugue_ comes from the Latin _fuga_ which is related to both _fugere_ (meaning 'to flee') and _fugare_ (meaning 'to chase'). In music, a fugue progresses through three sections: exposition, development, and recapitulation. _Recapitulation_ is defined as "an act or instance of summarizing or restating the main points of something." In biology it is the term used for "the repetition of an evolutionary or other process during development or growth."

_Disclaimer_: I do not own The Mentalist or any of these characters. I'm just playing and I promise to put them back where I found them.

No beta so any and all mistakes are mine.

Reviews (good or bad) are greatly appreciated!

xxx

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><p><strong>Recapitulation<strong>

In that moment, he wants to hate her. Teresa Lisbon led him to this door again and Patrick Jane went willingly because it didn't matter if he was a con man or a trusty CBI consultant, he'd follow her anywhere. And now images shutter through his mind, a movie reel cut from sappy romantic comedies and the worst horror flicks imaginable. Angela's gold hair in the sunlight, Charlotte's childish giggles. Delicate piano music, played by even more delicate hands. Birthday parties. Trips to the beach, the zoo. Her first bicycle – training wheels still on. Toys strewn about the hallway he'd just passed through. In one frame they are both smiling at him.

And in the next his vision has gone red from the blood, so much blood and some of it is still there on the wall. It burns bright for a moment, fresh crimson, dripping a little. And then it dries and fades and he's back in the present, doorknob cool against his now sweaty palm.

"I'm sorry," she says softly behind him. Now the movie reel switches. A woman is holding him at gunpoint and a madman with a knife lunges toward Lisbon. She doesn't hesitate to kill them both and he remembers her eyes after, searching, finding him shocked and breathless. Now they're standing in the CBI and she's blushing, hoping he can't really read her mind. Many months later he's telling her, "I want you to know you can trust me," and suddenly she is, trusting him, falling backward into his arms.

And then he's bringing her strawberries, silently asking for forgiveness, and she's taking him back like she always does, like she always will. He's flat on the ground, knocked out by a baseball, and when he opens his eyes her concerned face is the first thing he sees. Now they're dancing slowly and he remembers too that he never did guess what instrument she played in school.

Then he's in his dark attic room and she's sliding the door back, asking if he's okay, and he's lying to her, trying to protect her. He's drunk, necessary for solving a case, of course, and she's driving him home. He's handing her a flower, a hyacinth, pale blue. She's visiting him in prison, no blueberry muffin, only hurt in her eyes. But still, she's there.

It's life in the way that it's supposed to flash before your eyes when you die. But Patrick Jane isn't dying. He's coming back to life, such as it is, again.

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><p>Through all this, he says nothing and Lisbon's words are left to hang in the stale air. His head drops and she wonders why she couldn't just let him be happy, let it all stay forgotten. But what she's seen of him these past few days, she knows he's better than that.<p>

Her Jane wouldn't steal from them, from anyone. Her Jane wouldn't pick up random women at a seedy bar and he would never be so degrading as to cop a feel of her ass as she escorts him from that seedy bar. Her Jane would've solved the case, theatrics and all, and she would forgive him for all, even now, because he was still Patrick Jane, no matter if he's a con man or her trusty CBI consultant. He's her friend, too, and that's why she couldn't just let him forget all this. Her Jane is better than the con man.

_Her_ Jane. Lisbon wants to laugh at the thought.

Instead, she takes a few silent steps forward until one hand is resting on his back and the other is wrapped around his elbow, pulling him away. Jane closes the door and steps back into her, forcing them both down the hallway. He stops halfway to the stairs and turns, pressing his back to the wall. She can see his face now, tear-stained and blotchy red. He's crying so silently and the light is so dim, she feels the scene has been drained of color and sound. Jane slides to the floor, his head falls forward, a perfect image of dejection.

Lisbon doesn't say anything, can't trust her voice again, so she kneels in front of him instead. She pushes her fingers gently through his curls and he startles at the unfamiliar gesture. They are not like this; they don't touch, not this way. Ever. But she holds his gaze as her fingers ghost down to wipe the tears from his cheeks. Then her small hands drop to his broad shoulders and she simply holds him there, firmly, until the shaking he hadn't even been aware of stops.

Several minutes pass, though it could've been hours for all either of them knows. Jane finally nods, so slightly Lisbon almost misses it but then she nods too and rises. She holds out her hands for his and he quickly takes them, allowing her to help him to his feet. He stands for a moment looking down at her and then turns to look at the closed door. The door would always be there and he would've found himself here eventually. He's suddenly almost glad she did this. _Almost_. He understands he would've wanted her there with him anyway, would've needed her, though he'd never admit it, when everything came rushing back.

He opens his mouth and Lisbon waits patiently. But then he closes it again and shakes his head a little before turning and walking calmly down the stairs. Lisbon could almost swear she saw a faint smile as his eyes briefly met hers again. But she doesn't say anything either, just follows him out to the car.

The drive back to Sacramento is long but they both know, no matter what, they wouldn't have slept that night.

xxx


End file.
